


Of Dead Worms, Old Men, and Coming Home

by evocates



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean and Orlando have a reunion. Orlando tries a spot of rugbytackling. This goes as well as can be expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Dead Worms, Old Men, and Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afra_schatz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/gifts).



> Written for afra_schatz's birthday! She gave me the following prompts: "returning to England", "everything hurts, and it's your bloody fault, you moron", "reunion", and "incredibly annoying, that's your middle name". I tried to fulfil all of them somehow.

There was something to be said about the enthusiasm of the young, Sean thought to himself. Orlando had sent him exactly seventy-two voicemail messages. He wondered how many of those were real messages instead of Orlando breathing down the phone at him. Weren't the young ones supposed to be good at technology instead of failing at it spectacular as Orlando did? But then again, if Orlando could actually leave proper voicemail messages instead of breathing down the phone because he thought Sean had picked up, that would be one less thing for Sean to tease him about, and that would certainly be a shame.

Not that Sean lacked for things to rib to him about. He looked up at the huge _Pirates of the Caribbean 3_ poster just above his head and snorted. There was always that ridiculous moustache that he grew for that series, for example. Sean wondered if Orlando had kept it since filming was over, and he realised with a start that he hadn't seen the younger man for at least a year. They talked on the phone enough for that. Sometimes Sean thought that he should teach Orlando how to use email so his phone bill wouldn't keep burning a damned hole in his pocket, but it would certainly be easier to teach a cooked chicken how to fly.

A honk rang out behind him. Sean threw a middle finger out of his car absentmindedly before he stepped on the accelerator. The roads from Heathrow to Belsize Park were always congested at this time, and he had stopped looking at the traffic lights. What was the point when he had perfectly good alarm systems in the form of a bunch of impatient bastards' honking?

(Sean forgot for the moment that he was usually the impatient bastard honking as well. Selective memory was a wonderful thing.)

It took another hour or so before he could finally turn into the driveway of his house. He parked the car, pushed open the door, and stepped out of it--

And a whirlwind slammed into him and smacked him right against the hinge of the car door. Sean felt his breath being entirely knocked out of him.

“You took so fucking long to get here that I think your neighbours must think that I'm a homeless loiterer and they're just about to call the police on me. Do you really want to bail me out of the police station, Sean? Why didn't you pick up your phone? Who is the strange woman who keeps answering your phone? Okay, okay, I know that she's probably your voicemail message and you're not cheating on me. But still, Sean, you took fucking _forever_. I know London's traffic is shite, but seriously, Sean, I was going to be _arrested_.”

Sean dragged a deep breath into his poor abused lungs. 

“Jesus Christ, Orlando! What the hell are you doing?!”

Orlando blinked up to him from where he was practically nuzzling Sean's shirt. “I was just thinking that Viggo shouldn't have all the fun with his rugbytackling and everything. So, why not?”

“'Lan,” said Sean with exaggerated patience. He pushed himself up so he was half-sitting on the driver's seat of his car. Orlando didn't let go, but clung onto him like a limpet and Sean was suddenly glad that he had been working out for _Sharpe_ because now he had to drag _both_ of their weights. And his back was aching. 

“'Lan, I'm not in my twenties anymore. Neither are you. Jesus Christ.” He pushed at him, trying to dislodge Orlando's grip, but it was clearly easier to try to remove rust from metal by running water over it. Sean frowned.

“We're only as old as we think we are,” said Orlando philosophically.

Sean thumped him hard on the head.

“Ow!”

“Me back is as old as I am without any input from me brain,” Sean growled. He bucked his hips upwards. “Get off me!”

“You know, you're sending me conflicting messages. Usually you're saying 'Get _on_ me' when you do the thing with your hips.”

Rolling his eyes, Sean thumped Orlando again. This time right against the temple. The kid could take it; his skull was hard as rock.

“Okay, okay! Jeez,” Orlando complained. But he pulled himself off of Sean, standing there for a moment staring at the older man before he grabbed Sean by his forearms and dragged him upwards like a sack of potatoes.

“Everything hurts, and it's your bloody fault, you moron,” Sean grumbled. He rubbed a fist against the small of his back, trying to twist himself around without his back screaming at him so he could reach that spot that smacked so hard against the car door.

“Stop whinging,” shot back Orlando immediately. But he frowned, sliding his arms around Seans' body until his fingers touched the middle of his spine. “Does it really hurt?”

Sean sighed. He really couldn't be angry at Orlando when the younger man was staring at him like that. It reminded Sean very much of the little puppy that Evie had – whenever it bit someone, it would look at them reproachfully as if blaming them for forcing it to bite. Orlando was just like that.

“I smashed me bone against metal, what do you think?” he answered tiredly. His eyes darted down and he looked at Orlando properly before he tugged on the moustache and goatee that was still desecrating Orlando's face.

“You have a dead worm on your face,” said Sean dryly. “I thought you'd like to know, since you didn't seem to have noticed.”

Orlando punched him on the shoulder. 

“It's not fair picking on the injured man!”

“You're not injured enough then,” replied Orlando tartly. He rubbed at his mouth. “It's really that bad? I thought it makes me look... distinguished.”

Sean draped an arm over Orlando's shoulders. “Let me tell you a secret, 'Lan,” he whispered conspiratorially. “You'll never look distinguished. It's the fault of that pretty face of yours.”

“That face gets me plenty of birds looking, thank you very much,” Orlando grumbled in reply.

“Yeah, yeah, all the birds want you,” he drawled. “Too bad none of them noticed you when we were in Malta, eh?”

“It was because your legs and your miniskirt, Sean. The girls saw you because you looked like them.”

“That applies to you as well, you daft bugger,” Sean chuckled.

Orlando flung his head back. His hair was too short to do anything than a small, pathetic attempt towards a shampoo commercial hair-toss. “I embrace my girlish figure.”

“It isn't your damned figure I'm thinking 'bout,” Sean snickered. Shaking his head at Orlando constant, unchanging idiocy – admittedly, after a while it became rather reassuring – he dug into his pants for his keys. The movement tugged hard on the hurt muscle, and he hissed out a pained breath. Orlando looked at him, pulling him close, the humour in his eyes fading away.

“Shite,” the younger man whispered. “I really did a number on you, didn't I?”

“Why, you're offering me a massage?”

“I'm good at them,” Orlando waved a hand. “Besides, it's one of my duties, isn't it?”

“It better be, since you caused it.”

There was a silence as Sean tried to manoeuvre himself such that he could take out his keys without using that particular muscle. 

“I'm sorry,” Orlando said, sounding so sincere and contrite that Sean's head jerked up as he stared.

“You can make it up to me by getting me keys, opening this damned door, giving me a massage, and shutting up.”

“That's difficult,” Orlando darted over and pulled the keys easily out of the pocket of Sean's jeans. “I mean, three of them I can do, but I can't shut up. You love my voice too much, old man.”

Sean snorted, but he didn't reply until the door was _finally_ open he could slam Orlando against the heavy wood, proving just how limber this 'old man' could be.

“Your ego is so big that it's filling up me house,” Sean said dryly.

Orlando only grinned at him. Like some sort of perverse hummingbird, he kissed Sean's lips, then pecked gently all over his face.

“You like my ego. And all of me too.”

Over a year and they were finally alone, away from the mechanical eyes that liked Orlando so much. Sean let his gaze soften, and he slid a hand into soft dark hair and kissed him properly.

“Aye. It probably makes me a madman, but aye, I do.”

Hearing Orlando laugh from his words, the sound reverbrating around them down to Sean's bones, was better than anything else that Sean could think of offhand. Maybe a beer right now could beat it, but then Orlando kissed him again, and his taste was sweeter than beer, and Sean chuckled, muffling himself against Orlando's lips. 

It was odd, really. He never realised how much he missed Orlando until he saw him again.

_End_


End file.
